


There Is a Light And It Never Goes Out

by t_mesinine



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Michael (Good Omens), Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Pining, Protective Crowley, Raphael!Crowley, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, The Blitz, Whump, Wingfic, at least i like to think i'm funny, broken ribs don't heal like that, good ending, i describe eyes for 3 paragraphs, lots of space metaphors, very slight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-05-31 04:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19418965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_mesinine/pseuds/t_mesinine
Summary: "Crowley," Aziraphale slapped his book shut and turned to him with a worried glance."Have you heard anything of Raphael recently?"Crowley thought he might choke.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Raphael (/ˈræfiəl/; Hebrew: רָפָאֵל, translit. Rāfāʾēl, lit. 'It is God who heals', 'God Heals', 'God, Please Heal'; Ancient Greek: Ραφαήλ, Coptic: ⲣⲁⲫⲁⲏⲗ, Arabic: رفائيل or إسرافيل) is an archangel responsible for healing in the traditions of most Abrahamic religions.

one

Raphael walked the heavens and set down glittering stars. He weaved his breath into colourful nebulas. The small droplets of angelic blood gleaming on his hands fell, and became red dwarf stars. He worked alone. Sometimes, the others would come to him, and, watching him work, inquire.

"What's this all for?" Gabriel once asked, toying with a vivid blue planet in the same solar system as Earth.

"You know, the only creatures to comprehend the Almighty will never be able to see all the work you're doing here. Not up close, anyway." Gabriel shuffled his wings and set the planet down. Raphael only hummed in response, carefully arranging the intricate rings of a nearby gas giant. He finished dotting the outer rings with small scarred moons and stretched, turning towards Gabriel.

"All these bodies in the universe," he paused, and turned towards the Earth, away from Gabriel. "They will calm Her creatures, and heal them from a distance. They will set their sights towards the heavens, and when we cannot grant them relief," Raphael quieted. His uncharacteristic yellow eyes left Earth and landed on Gabriel. "These will. I cannot always be everywhere, you know."

"It's admirable that you are so committed to your duty," Gabriel admitted. "But all the suffering they'll endure is part of The Almighty's plan." He took a step towards the Earth and smiled. "It's all Ineffable." He clapped Raphael on his back and unfurled all six of his wings. "Don't trip and fall back to Earth!"

Raphael watched as he flew away. "Ineffable…" he muttered, his breath freezing.

….

He fell like a comet, with a fiery trail behind him. And though Heaven crossed him out from their records, he didn't appear in Hell's either. Not under his old name.

….

He Fell, and then he Crawled.


	2. two

two

“I gave it away!”

Crawley gawked. His two hidden pairs of black wings almost freed themselves from the empty space one stored wings in.

“There are vicious animals out there and she’s expecting already!” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands. He glanced at Crawley. “I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” he sighed, turning his gaze to Adam struggling with the lion, hands tightly clasped.

“Oh, I don’t think you can do the wrong thing, you’re an angel,” Crawley said, failing to hide the bitter note his voice took.  
Aziraphale blushed and Crawley felt like Gabriel had sucker punched him. He was suddenly very aware of the angel's sky blue eyes resting on his face, delight illuminating every feature.

“O-oh, thank you,” the angel stuttered, smiling. Crawley didn't know the Almighty had made breathing, sentient stars. “It’s been bothering me.” he admitted, relief radiating from him as Adam struck the lion with his former sword.

The storm clouds thickened. Tiny, wet droplets started to fall, and with them Crawley’s hope to see the stars he once made. He would have wished to see them one more time. He didn't know when he could return to the surface, and Hell wasn't famous for it's observatories, despite the lack of light pollution. Heaven was a high-rise office, with plenty of light pollution. Crawley’s creations couldn’t be seen even from the topmost floors. Aziraphale cast a worried glance skyward, catching a few stray droplets of water on his face, the water smoothing down his dandelion puff of hair. Crawley couldn’t help but stare. He had not interacted with many angels, prior to his fall, and yet he was certain there was not a single one quite like Aziraphale.

The angel’s wing sprung out to cover his head. Crawley almost fell off the wall. Dumbstruck, he stepped underneath it. Crawley did have his own second pair of wings to protect from the rain. His hair curled up even more with moisture. Gabriel had teased him over it, in the past. But he would rather not reveal what he used to be, even to this unusual angel. So very unusual.

In the distance, Eve took Adam’s hand.

….  
3004 bc

He’d really only come to the surface to figure out why the ceiling above Dagon’s office would not stop leaking. Seeing Aziraphale was an added bonus that made his heart flutter, as much as a demon’s could. The angel had not left his thoughts.

“How did the whole flaming sword business work out for you, then?” Crawley asked, attempting to be as casual as can be. Especially when inquiring whether God had forced you to backflip from one realm to the opposing, fall through the 14 known planes and 5 unknown, several with dimensional malfunctions and land in a filthy pool filled with sulphur, complete with an angry lifeguard known as Beelzebub. Clearly not the worst case scenario, as he hadn’t seen the angel around Hell, and Aziraphale didn’t appear to have a nasty infection one could get from Hell’s only public swimming pool.

“The Almighty has never actually mentioned it again,” Aziraphale said, glancing at one of the goats attempting to eat an entire human child.

“Probably a good thing,” Crawley muttered, letting the goat _see_ his eyes that were hidden to everyone but the angel. The goat let out a bleep filled with dread and galloped, as much as goats could gallop, aboard the ship, much to the astonishment of its handlers. “What’s all this about? Build a giant boat and fill it with animals? A seabound circus?” Crawley asked, watching the animals flit about and make dreadful noise.

Aziraphale furrowed his brow and leaned closer. “From what I hear, God’s a bit tetchy,” he whispered. Crawley raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Wiping out the human race. Big storm.” Crawley looked around at the frantic humans and the kids running around, and then at the gathering storm clouds. Better tell Dagon to move her office.  
“All of them?” he asked.

“No, see Noah up there? His family, their sons and wives, they’re all going to be fine.” Aziraphale attempted to assure him, but fell flat. He was clearly doubting this just as much as Crawley.

 _And yet he hasn’t fallen,_ Crawley thought.

“But she’s drowning everybody else?” Crawley asked, with a spark of anger at the edge of his tone. Aziraphale only nodded, looking down at his hands. If Crawley were to guess, he felt ashamed. _You can’t doubt the Almighty!_ Gabriel’s angry voice echoed in his head. What followed was-

Crawley saw the children running around, the worried mothers holding hungry toddlers, and heard a rumble of thunder. He saw a small child who couldn’t possibly be older than eleven with tear tracks running down their cheeks. He turned to Aziraphale, snarling, full of holy rage, and not the Heaven approved kind.

“Not the kidsss? You can’t kill children!” he hissed, face contorted. This is what Heaven preaches as just? he thought.  
Aziraphale didn’t meet his eyes. Crawley wanted to shake him, hard.

“Thiss is what Gabriel orderss? Thiss is what Heaven preaches? Killing children in the name of Faith?” Crawley hissed, and only half of what he said was understandable to any human ear. “Thiss is something my lot would do, not Heaven!” Crawley spat. He could feel the people around him stare.

“It’s..” Aziraphale struggled to form words. “God’s plans are-”

“Are you going to say Ineffable?” Crawley interrupted, forcing down old memories. _Gabriel shook laughing in the inside of his mind._

Aziraphale quickly glanced at him. Whatever he saw made him pick his words for a while.

….

Later, as the ship flowed, filled with thousands of creatures great and small, Aziraphale found Crawley calming half a dozen children who were frightened by the thunder in a forgotten storage room. Several of them hadn’t yet learned to walk. One of the oldest, a six year old child, was crouched in the corner. He refused to speak or meet anyone’s eyes. Crawley held a baby in one hand and patched the knee of a toddler with another. The eleven year old child he’d seen earlier was nowhere to be found.

Crawley looked at Aziraphale with empty eyes. He looked tired, and his eyes had sunk deeper into his skull. The yellow glimmer usually reflected within and often directed Aziraphale’s way along with a sarcastic quip had dissolved. A few thousand years later armchair philosophists would wonder what nothingness looked like. Crawley’s eyes were possibly the best imitation yet.

 _I couldn’t save them all,_ Aziraphale heard in his mind, and met Crawley’s featureless, blank face. He miracled them all food. The six year old refused to eat. Every wave that crashed against the side of the ship made Crawley look more nauseous. Aziraphale couldn’t say anything.

….  
34 ad

“Mother! You have to forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doin-” Jesus screamed.

“Come to smirk at him, haven’t you?” Crowley sidled up to Aziraphale.

“Smirk? Me?” Aziraphale looked offended. Crowley supposed he should have expected that. He still remembered the Ark, how ashamed Aziraphale had looked. It hadn’t been his fault, obviously. But the moment the water had cleared and the surviving children were safe, Crowley had left without a word. He couldn’t speak. He’d found the driest place possible and gotten drunk on wine he’d stolen from Noah, looked at the stars and screamed at God. He supposed Aziraphale had done something similar.  
Another wail pierced the air. Someone like Gabriel would be brimming with pride at a job well done right now. Aziraphale looked disgusted.

“I’m not consulted on-” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, looking like someone forced to read Gabriel’s bad poetry out loud, “policy decisions, Crawley.”  
“Oh, I’ve changed my name,” Crowley said, looking at the angel. It surprised him how they’d both remained relatively unchanged since they’d met 4000 years ago. His hair had been unnaturally curly the day they’d crossed paths. He chalked it up to the brewing storm. And Aziraphale had extended his alabaster wing over his head, the same colour his had been once, like it was the most natural thing in this newly born world. Like that was the most typical, usual thing to do for one’s sworn (im)mortal enemy, who you were really meant to be impaling with your sword and then roasting on a slow heat, rotating slowly over divine flames to make the world’s most demonic shish kebab.

“What is it now, then?”

“Crowley.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said, wincing as the roman soldier drove the nail deeper. “Did you, uh, ever meet him?” he asked.

“Yes, actually,” Crowley said, adjusting his cloak. He turned towards Aziraphale, meeting his blue eyes. “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” he said, with an expression upon his face Aziraphale couldn’t describe.

The next wail pierced the air. “That has got to hurt..” Crowley mumbled, yellow eyes full of genuine sympathy. He looked around at the gathered people. “What was it he said that got everyone so upset?” he asked the angel.

“”Be kind to each other.”” Aziraphale quoted.

“Oh, yeah, that’ll do it.” the fallen Archangel Raphael, saint of healing, murmured.

They watched together as Jesus was raised heavenwards, towards the stars Crowley had made. When he dreamt, they covered his absence from Heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this last night and then I couldn't sleep because the sun rose at 4 bloody am and then I got woken up at 9 am because of the song festival rehearsal right outside my window and now it's 3 pm and I drank an enourmous amount of coffee and my hands are shaking so much iit's hard to type and i'm still so tired and i'm so sorry if tis is completely incomprehensible lol
> 
> ninja edit i messed up the spacinng attempted to fix it read at your own peril


	3. three

three

Crowley removed the lid from a small pot. The liquid had steeped for enough now, he decided. Crowley removed it from the fire. He poured some of it in a smaller clay bowl, then stood and stretched out his calloused hands. A simple miracle would fix that, later. He had been labouring over the salve for five hours now.

“It’s finished,” he said to the father. A small child was coughing in the adjacent room.

“I simply don’t know how to repay you,” the father said. His face was partially obscured by the aromatic smoke drifting through the dimly lit house. The coals cracking in the fireplace and the quiet chirping of cicadas were the only noises that could be heard. An ambient July night had settled over Wales.

“Don’t worry about it. The illness wouldn’t normally be this severe, it’s just stayed untreated for so long. I had to treat this.” Crowley said, throwing the herbs he'd strained out from the pot into the fire.

The father looked guilty and stared at the dark wooden floor. Crowley noticed the scars covering the man’s hands, his fingers permanently disfigured, illuminated by a single candle at the end of its wick.

“It’s all because I am an executioner. The Lord wanted to have his friend beheaded for having an affair with his wife, but didn’t want to sully the hands of his friends with demonic power,” he said, avoiding Crowley's eyes.

“How kind of him,” Crowley murmured under his breath.

“I happened to pass by, and was ordered by the lord to take up the axe. Now the law doesn’t allow me or my family to take on any other jobs. Nobody wants to buy or sell us anything. At mass, I have to stand near the door and leave before the others." the father said, with a tint of sadness and exhaustion colouring his voice. “I told you that you might not want to associate with me, but you went ahead and made the medicine for her anyway. You’re the first to not pass judgement. I really thought my daughter was going to die.” He dabbed the corners of his eyes with the simple sun-bleached robe he wore.

Crowley seethed on the inside. A made up concept of "demonic power" had made the community abandon a man in need. An innocent man who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d show them demonic power. But right now he had a small child to heal.

He picked up the bowl and quietly stepped into the girl's room. Technically, this was their second meeting. She'd been asleep when he first studied her illness. Her eyes were hazy and clouded, and she seemed a bit scared to see him now. He lowered the black hood covering his hair and face, and tried to project a reassuring aura. He was a bit out of practice with that, having been a solitary angel and then, a demon. Demons bothered little with kindly auras.

"Hello there," he murmured as a greeting, setting the bowl on the ground next to him. "Can you sit up for me, please?"

The girl struggled to pull herself upwards. The father hurried to her side and took her hands, adjusting her until she was sitting. Crowley pulled a candle closer and studied the rashes covering the girls forehead and neck, extending to her back. He sighed and dipped a small cloth into the bowl, gently covering the girl's forehead with the salve. He took another bundle of linen and soaked it in cold water, then wrapped it around her head to bring the inflammation down. He turned to the father observing him work.

"So just do what I've done now for all the rashes once a day. The cold water will keep the fever down." he said, and started to sit up. The girl grasped his hand.

"Why are your eyes like that?" she asked. Crowley raised his brows in surprise. Had she seen behind the sunglasses?

"Those frames around your eyes," she leaned in, the water from her bandages tracking down her face. "I've seen those on Brother August, before he starts to read the bible. Yours look different, though. Never seen anything like them." she said, squinting at him, grip on his wrist unrelenting.

Crowley considered his answer for a moment. "My eyes have a mutation. It means they're different than normal. Some people get scared and don't like the way they look, so I keep them hidden."

The girl looked at him, a strange expression on her face. "I wanna see them. I don't think you're scary at all." she said. The father stepped in.

"Agnes, don't harass the doctor." he said, embarrassment evident in his tone. Crowley thought for a quick second. Humans had seen his eyes before.

"It's fine, actually," he murmured. The father took his cue and looked away. He leaned in close and slowly removed his glasses. Agnes' grey eyes met his yellow. She carefully examined them.

"You're an angel, aren't you?" she whispered conspiringly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Crowley felt like someone had chucked a hard boiled egg of panic at his face. He schooled his features into a neutral expression, which was harder to do without his sunglasses. Agnes' slightly feverish grey eyes peered at him.

"You are. You healed me when no human would. And i know that," she paused, throwing a wry glance upward, as if she was sharing an inside joke, "Because, because Angels have different eyes from humans. And yours look just like them." She giggled, apparently very pleased with herself.

"Interesting," Crowley said, because what else did you say to a statement like that. "People usually call them demonic."

"They're wrong." Agnes turned serious. "Don't listen to them." she said, and collapsed.

Crowley sat there with the most dumbfounded expression he'd had since the Garden. Then he put his sunglasses back on.

The father stayed with his daughter, and Crowley packed up the last of his supplies, not allowing himself to think of much. Aziraphale had wanted to meet him at the Globe, and he’d have to change his clothes. He refused to be John Dee’ing around the countryside. He reserved that for London. 

“Wait! Kind stranger!” The father whisper-yelled, running up to him. “Please, tell me your name, so that when I thank Our Lord in heaven, I can also pray for your safety.”

Crowley felt his throat constrict. He hid his shaking hands in the folds of his black robe.

“Raphael,” he choked out, and stumbled into the night, blocking out the father’s face, dawning with recognition. Here was somebody who paid attention during mass. Agnes smiled in her sleep.

….

"Crowley," Aziraphale slapped his book shut and turned to him with a worried glance.

"Have you heard anything of Raphael recently?"

Crowley thought he might choke.

"It's just that-" Aziraphale took in the expression that had flashed over his face for a split second, and paused. Nobody else, alive or dead, would have noticed the maelstrom of emotions currently shoving his entire brain into a blender from a simple quiver of his lip.

"Crowley, are you all right?" he asked, and set his book down. Crowley contemplated the benefits of jumping out of the window. Instead, he launched up from Aziraphale's couch, out of the angel's reach.

"I haven't heard anything, actually. Why do you ask?" he said, casually strolling up to a bookshelf and flipping open a random book.  _ "How to tell you're in love with him"  _ read the title page.  _ Fuck, _ he thought, and shoved it back in the shelf with extraordinary speed.

_ Wait, why was this he- _

"There's been reports of the angel Raphael performing miracles," Aziraphale interrupted, standing up and walking over to him. The window was now awfully far away. Crowley felt cornered. Azure pools, brimming with knowledge, swirling and fatally deep, also known as the angel's eyes, met his own ochre behind the sunglasses.

"The Archangel. Who fell 6000 years ago." he clarified, looking at Crowley expectantly.

_ Fuckfuckfuckfuckohfuck- _

"How do you know?" Crowley asked, faking cool. He hoped the angel didn't see through him.

"Human reports. Heaven doesn't seem aware of this at all." Aziraphale paused, and stepped away. "I'm just curious if this is some plan Hell has made up."

"I don't think any of the higher ranking demons could be Raphael," Crowley said. "Have you met Hastur?"

"But you must have seen how he Fell," Aziraphale said, brow furrowed. "He fell from so high up, the entirety of Heaven saw. I've never seen a Fall like that."

An old weight that had taken residence in Crowley’s chest slammed into his stomach like an anchor of dreariness. It wasn’t his heart. Everybody knew demon’s hearts burned up during the fall. And his fall had been the loftiest. He’d been aflame, the heat scorching his wings coal black, unable to breathe anything but smoke-

“Crowley!” 

He snapped out of his old memory to see Aziraphale hovering in front of him, looking frightened, pale blue eyes glistening with fear and worry and something greater. His hand hovered in front of him, so close to touching Crowley. Crowley wanted nothing more than to seize his hand, grasp onto it like a lifeline and intertwine his thin fingers with Aziraphale’s. To then bring the angel’s other hand to his cheekbone, settle his whole head against him, his fingers carding through his hair, and have the angel’s thumb rest at the corner of his eye, brushing away his stray tears. Demons didn’t cry, even when cutting onions. They simply didn’t know how, and  _ why.  _ Crowley yearned to be able to cry. To process. And then file all his feelings neatly away in some accounting cabinet, with dates, causes, withdrawals and solutions marked on the corner of the title page, summarized and stamped by a higher authority.

Crowley yearned to look deep within himself and hear something besides loud distorted screaming in his soul. Without Aziraphale, the screams were typical. The usual. He’d even call them manageable, with his horrible coping mechanisms, involving abundant quantities of alcohol and screaming. At God, at his plants, at the nothingness that enveloped him. But there still laid the inexplicable fact that if he went a year or more without his angel, the howls became infernal, burning and painful. He had no choice but to find Aziraphale, nonchalantly drag him out of a jail cell and then go and eat crepes together. At reasonable distances from Aziraphale, the wailing in his head quieted. Like over the dinner table, or sitting together in his Bentley, or walking together through the park and feeding ducks. 

Sometimes Aziraphale got close to him, cornered him in his bookshop that smelled like old books and cocoa and  _ home _ , and looked at him like  _ that _ , with his soft hands that had scars from papercuts, fingers lingering over his coat lapels. Then Crowley’s mind started to screech like air raid sirens during the Blitz. Every second his pale blue eyes, like holy springs hidden deep in the woods, lined by the puff of white dandelions that was his hair, scanned his features, another explosion racked the inside of his heart. Had he ever even touched Aziraphale? Had he ever joined his frail hands with the angels? He wanted to reach out and never let go.

Instead, he dug his traitorous bony fingers into the side of his jacket. Aziraphale’s eyes searched his face. He hoped he wouldn’t find the truth there.

“My dear boy, you’re worrying me,” Aziraphale murmured. Crowley felt the angel’s breath tickle the tip of his nose.  _ Please don’t take another step closer,  _ he thought, as another explosion broke something in his heart called common sense _. I won’t be able to look you in the eyes anymore if I do something stupid right now,  _ Crowley thought. Demons did not shake nor sweat, and neither did their hands, but his were just as disobedient as himself. He moved his traitorous hands behind his back, clasping them together so tight that they would certainly bruise. He didn’t have a heart, and yet his chest hammered so strong he couldn’t breathe. A strange tiny voice in his head told him that if he collapsed right now, like a damsel in distress, Aziraphale would certainly catch him. His entire body would go limp and he’d fall, in slow motion, and the angel’s hands would encircle his back, fingers touching his shoulder blades, where his wings were hidden. And he’d finally feel the warmth radiating from Aziraphale, covering him. He’d wake up on the angel’s couch with three hundred tartan blankets covering him, and he’d meet the angel’s eyes, and Aziraphale would understand.

He’d try to heal and fix him-

_ No _ . he thought, mentally punching himself. He wouldn’t burden his angel like that. Aziraphale wasn’t a divine miracle that would shovel all the soot from his soul. He would always catch him, if he were to fall. And that knowledge was enough, he told himself. But he would never force him to be a crutch. He needed to heal himself, and it was entirely his fault if he couldn’t.  _ I deserve everything that happens to me,  _ he thought, and felt some sick comfort at that. His feverish mind cackled, and the nauseous mania that came with the realization mixed with the panic and his turbulent heartbeat.  _ He’s too good for me _ , he thought, and the pain that came from that statement was debilitating and so very satisfying.

Aziraphale sighed, and stepped away from him. The mixture of sickening mania and sheer despair quieted out of surprise. A part of him was glad. Joyous that he couldn’t taint the angel with his presence. Crowley watched as Aziraphale walked up to the register and pulled out a bottle of wine from underneath the counter. He openly gawked as the angel took a hearty swig.

“I keep it around in case the Albanian mafia come around again,” Aziraphale clarified, as if that made it any better. “Care to join me? I feel a bit silly by myself.” he said, gesturing with the bottle.

Crowley certainly didn’t have trouble getting wasted by himself, but misery loves company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you relate to the depressive snek shoelace this chapter go see a psychologist. also did you see how i removed the slight angst tag? yeahhh BUT I promise all will be well


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> suicide mention tw, the great war = ww1.

four

_“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” Aziraphale whispered, dread billowing in his pale blue eyes. And then he left._

_He was alone as he whispered, “Obviously.”_

_Alone. He’d finally gone for good. Anguish creeped up his limbs and settled in his chest. He felt the weight of all his wings crushing his back. The two hidden pairs he hadn’t looked at in eternity ached. Sometimes he wondered if the damage he’d already done to them was irreparable. He couldn't bring himself to look at them._

He woke with a start. Something was wrong. A steady, quiet hum of worry filled his ears. His eyes darted open. Crowley rose from the floor of his apartment where he had collapsed immediately after his last meeting with Aziraphale. He hadn’t intended to sleep, but the tendrils of fatigue had gripped him, and he hadn’t resisted. His clothes were very old, he realized suddenly, examining the deprecated overcoat he’d slept in. His form crackled and creaked as he moved. He spotted an envelope settled on the floor in a fine layer of dust next to his door. Beelzebub’s crest shined at him. He broke the seal. A commendation for-

“The Great War?” he mumbled to himself, sleep still blanketing the edges of his consciousness. As he read, the horror dawned on his face. The letter fell from his hands and settled quietly on the floor. An air raid siren started up in the distance. The light from an explosion shone through the curtains. Crowley crumpled on the floor. His shaky fingers dug into the floorboards and he shook, his one pair of uncared for wings quietly flitting open for the first time in a century.  
“Why are you doing this?” he rasped, and yet no tears appeared. He wanted to cry so badly. Would she listen to him then? Would she listen if he hurt himself more, really showed her what she was doing? “Stop it, please, I can’t anymore-”

The whistling as more bombs fell was his only answer. He stood and rammed his wing into the wall. The pain shot through him, and he slumped to the ground with a strained howl, static covering his vision. He couldn’t cry.

“You just don’t care,” he croaked, “What am I to you, anyway? You still have Gabriel, Uriel and Michael. I’m just the trash you threw out.” His throat felt like sandpaper. “I’m pathetic.” he murmured, looking down at the blood dripping from his fingers. He felt nauseous. Crowley sat there and stared at the ground, listening to his clock tik. Eventually the dull grays replaced the midnight darkness. Crowley stood and left his coat on the floor, making his way to the window. With trembling hands, he pulled the curtain aside and looked at the remaining stars, casting their frail light onto a destroyed London.

…. 

Crowley drove through the streets of London, air raid sirens screeching. The panic within him grew with each passing minute. He'd spent the last week catching up with the one hundred years he'd slept through, and acquired a "car" in the process. He'd tried to locate Aziraphale to no avail. The angel hadn't been discorporated yet, but something told Crowley he was about to be. He gripped the wheel tighter, afraid it was going to slip from his sweating hands. Only about half an hour ago had Crowley figured out what exactly Aziraphale had gotten himself into. It was too late to stop him, now. The best he could do was damage control. He stopped his car at a reasonable distance from the church. He waited as the german double agent entered, and then lurked up to one of the side entrances. _What if he's already been discorporated? _,whispered a voice within. Crowley forced it to quiet, but fear was already seared deep into his mind.__

____

The handle was scalding, as if the bomb he'd planned to drop here had already landed. A warning for occult forces like himself. He braced himself and tore the door open. The first step burned. He couldn't stop a curse loudly falling from his lips. _Dedicated to the Archangel Michael, _read a sign Crowley spotted, and he swore louder. The blessed flames spiritually engraved in the floor nipped at his heels and rose higher, higher. A demon that was actually the rank Crowley claimed to be would have been discorporated in fifteen seconds flat. He rounded the corner tipping and cursing and met the astounded eyes of a crowd of nazis and his angel at gunpoint. A lovely spot for a rendezvous a century due, in a church dedicated to his estranged sister, Crowley thought.__

_____ _

"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale whispered, turning to him in anger. Crowley didn’t know what he’d expected. Aziraphale wasn’t going to fall in his arms after a hundred years. Nothing had really changed. It hurt.

_____ _

“Stopping you from getting into trouble!” he gasped as the pain overtook his body. It wasn’t just the physical kind. The nazis mumbled something among themselves that he didn’t bother listening to, instead noticing the basin of holy water, completely unguarded. A mixture of unsaid thoughts flitted around in his head. He didn’t dare acknowledge them. The angel followed his gaze, and worry covered his face. His attention snapped to the chattering nazis, and then back to him.

_____ _

“Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, irritation and concern subduing, replaced with surprise.

_____ _

“You don’t like it?” Crowley shot back, still hopping from one leg to another, hoping he sounded nonchalant enough. _He imagined Gabriel hearing his current name, seeing his form, his mistreated wings, seeing how he’d changed. Mockingly calling him Raphael and smiting him on the spot like a cockroach. God had given him that name Herself, and it was doubtless an insult to choose another. But his entire existence was a mockery to Her, wasn’t it? How dared he exist at all?_

_____ _

“I’ll get used to it,” Aziraphale said with the last dregs of irritation long faded from his face, replaced with something more familiar. And then a ghost of a smile danced on his face, something only for him. Crowley’s chest ached with longing. He had missed him so much it was indescribable.

_____ _

_I’ll get used to it, he had said, as if there was a future for them after all._

_____ _

… 

_____ _

He stood in the ruins of his sister’s church polishing his sunglasses, surrounded by the smell of burning. For once, he wasn’t the one aflame. The celestial pattern etched into the ground underneath him had been broken. His legs were charred, but he didn’t recognize the pain.

_____ _

“That was very kind of you,” Aziraphale said, stammering a little.

_____ _

“Shaddup!” Crowley threw back like he always did when accused of such dreadful things.

_____ _

“Well, it really was.” he added in a shy tone, brimming with thankfulness. Then horror struck his features. “The books!” he uttered, raising his hand to his temple, eyes filled with dread. “I forgot all the books! Oh, they’ll all be blown to-” he quieted as Crowley yanked the suitcase out of a dead nazi’s hands. He extended the suitcase containing his angel’s loved books. Aziraphale’s hand briefly touched his frail fingers and Crowley almost dropped it all on his toes. The angel’s touch was soft. The feeling trailed up his hand and spread all over, and Crowley blushed.

_____ _

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” he asked, voice wavering, and hurried towards his Bentley, warmth seeping from his fingertips deeper into his very bones. Behind him, unbeknownst to Crowley, in Aziraphale’s eyes flashed a great realization as he cradled his treasured books. It was an old truth, the extent of which he hadn’t realized.

_____ _

Later, when they were both in the Bentley, the starlight shone in Aziraphale’s eyes in a way it never had before. The quick glance Crowley stole left him breathless. He could see all the stars in the sky reflected back at him. The most frail stars usually cloaked under a cape of darkness gleamed anew like a thousand suns. A pale blue hue covered this newly discovered universe, perfectly filling the empty gaps in creation. Crowley could sink deep into that tranquil blue, float for eternity and never surface, the eternal stillness and perfection of the entire cosmos cradling him.

_____ _

….  
In the early morning, after the bookshop bell chimed him goodbye, Crowley stood alone on the stairs to his Angel’s home. He pressed a chaste kiss to his thin fingers, where the warmth still lingered. It’s all going to be alright, he thought, and for once, he believed himself.

_____ _

…. 

_____ _

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you wanna go.” He meant it. He’d flown out to Alpha Centauri before and it was breathtaking. He’d never gone to space together with Aziraphale before, but there was a first time for everything.

_____ _

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” Aziraphale said. His heart shattered. Aziraphale opened the door and disappeared, and Crowley was left in his Bentley holding the thermos of holy water. The Bentley drove him home without asking. He stuttered out of his car and into his apartment, setting the holy water down on the first surface he found. He collapsed against the wall in his plant room, pulling his knees close to his chest. In a fit of sudden rage he ripped his glasses from his face.

_____ _

“What the fuck does that mean?” he screamed, and stumbled up. His plants were quiet, too afraid to move. “Is he talking about us? Is there an us?” his voice cracked, but he kept going. “It’s been six thousand fucking years how much slower can I even go-” he paused, and then fell forward into a wall covered with ivy.

_____ _

_He’d plucked a tiny sliver of this ivy off a wall in Soho the morning after he met Aziraphale again. When he’d walked by the place again five years later the wall and the mother ivy plant were gone-_

_____ _

____

_____ _

He dug his fingers into the vines and crushed, his hands reduced to shaky fists. Crowley felt the plant sigh around him and give way. He pulled his hands away and stumbled backwards. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, his vision blurring for a split second. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, yellow eyes blown wide open. He could see his plants shivering around him, like scared _children-_

_____ _

____

_____ _

____

_____ _

____

_____ _

He shrunk down, collapsing in on himself, until he was a snake again, and squeezed himself into an empty flower pot. _I’m pathetic, _he thought again, letting old anguish flick open his old wounds he thought had closed for good. For a moment he considered going to the kitchen, unscrewing the cap, and simply-__

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

____

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

_Wasn’t that what he’d wanted it for at first? Wasn’t it?_

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

____

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

_And now you’re too much of a coward, cooed the tinny voice in his head._

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

____

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______ _ _

_____ _

“I refuse,” he hissed to himself, to the voice, and shot up in his snake form, morphing into a bigger python. “I refuse to do thiss. If you want me dead, do it yoursself.” he looked up, through his apartment ceiling, somewhere beyond. “Go on. Why did you create me if I’m sso disgussting?” He morphed into an even bigger snake, coal black scales absorbing all the light around him, crushing the walls of his flat. “Look at me. I’m an abomination. Get it over with already!” he hissed.

_____ _

______ _ _

_____ _

____

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_____ _

Nothing happened. Sometimes Crowley wondered if She’d ever existed at all, or if it was all so bloody Ineffable no creature could ever comprehend.

_____ _

______ _ _

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____

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey lads? forgot to edit this chapter. hmm there may be some more angsty lines included within the next 30ish minutes as I run screaming through the draft. I'm an absolute idiot.  
> HEYHO i drew more things inspired by this! link here!! [tiny snek crowley in a flowerpot](https://sinisus.tumblr.com/post/186167972518/this-is-what-i-use-6-years-of-drawing-expertise)


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A seraph (/ˈsɛrəf/, "the burning one"/"serpent"; or seraphim /ˈsɛrəfɪm/, in the King James Version also seraphims (plural); Hebrew: שָׂרָף śārāf, plural שְׂרָפִים śərāfîm; Latin: seraphim and seraphin (plural), also seraphus (-i, m.) is a type of celestial or heavenly being originating in Ancient Judaism.

five

  
  


“Don’t lecture me about the greater good, sunshine, I’m the Archangel  _ fucking  _ Gabriel!”

His violet eyes gleamed, radiating fury that he’d ever been questioned. Entitlement. Sandalphon smiled beside him, cross embedded within his teeth shining. He remembered when they’d executed Jesus on a similar cross less than two thousand years ago. Policy decisions. Uriel stayed quiet, not meeting his eyes. She didn’t want to be here. Neither did Crowley. So much in common, children of the same family. Michael was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t be bothered to witness the execution of a measly Principality. Busy as always. 

Sunlight always seemed too harsh, too cold on the upper floors of heaven. It made the bruises around his wrists where his restraints had been look more sickly. His face slightly hurt from the cloth they’d bound over his mouth, dragging him away. He cringed inwardly, remembering Hastur as a little old asian lady beating Aziraphale with a crowbar. 

“Now, into the flame,” Gabriel said, gesturing with his hand. Sandalphon chuckled beside him. The hellfire cast a glaring contrast to the white light from Heaven, twisting the Archangels faces into something eerie, more akin to demons.

“Right,” said Crowley, in Aziraphale’s voice. He stepped closer to the hellfire. For a split second he wondered if there was enough divinity left in him for the flames to truly hurt. “Lovely knowing you all,” he said, smiling like Aziraphale had when he’d found the hooligans who defaced his favourite bakery. “May we meet on a better occasion.” he added, looking Gabriel and Uriel in the eye. Uriel radiated disinterest. She’d checked up on him occasionally, when he was still working on the stars. He’d remembered her unbridled enthusiasm, pointing out one colourful nebula after another, white wings shivering with excitement. He’d wondered what had happened to her, after his fall. They’d all changed a little, he knew.

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” Gabriel said, and beamed at him in that sociopathic way that had always made Raphael shiver. Would Gabriel smile that exact way if he knew who they were really trying to execute?

He threw back an icy stare so full of loathing that it would be uncharacteristic on his angel’s face in any normal circumstance. But this wasn’t normal. None of it. He wondered why God didn’t stop them. Why wouldn’t She intervene, to tell them all that Aziraphale was the most extraordinary, kind angel who had ever been created? Or, to reveal their ruse and have them both properly executed, exercising Her power fully. Get rid of the problem child once and for all. Surely She knew what was happening. Her own dearest, perfect four Archangels, murdering each other. Or, at the very least, Crowley supposed, the remaining three perfect angels killing the ostracized, tarnished one.

_ You just don’t care, huh,  _ he thought, and stepped into the flame. He should have been happy that he felt nary a sting. And yet this was final proof that he’d been fully cast out, never intended to return. He let his anger rise as a breath of fire directed at Gabriel, and noted bitterly that he covered a frightened Uriel behind his back. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry.

….

The Archangel Michael extended a towel to a demon submerged in a bathtub of holy water, who was happily paddling away. He’d even said ‘please’, after calling her “dude”.

“I think it would be better if I were to be left alone in the future. Don’t you think?” the demon drawled, meeting each of their eyes, earning a nod in reply from all.

She turned and left, combat boots clicking against the floors of Hell, hidden beneath the pearly white robes that were part of her disguise. She had been made an utter fool. Michael did not leave matters unfinished. Her fingers itched for her sword. It had been a while since she’d severed bitchy serpents.

….

Aziraphale and Crowley stood on a rooftop, waiting for the stars to show. It was a busy Monday, the second evening of the rest of their lives. The clouds gathering eastward told Crowley it was going to be a dark and stormy night. So much for seeing the stars. He turned to Aziraphale. “I don’t think there’s a point in waiting. It’s not going to be a particularly clear evening,” he said, idly scratching the snake sealed into his skin. Aziraphale hummed in response, leaning on his toes and bouncing back down again, the wind teasing his blonde hair. His eyes were set on the silhouette of London that was about to be cast in faint orange light. Dusk wasn’t far away. Crowley thought Aziraphale was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“The view from up here is splendid, my dear. You’re missing out.” Aziraphale chided him, turning his head slightly, a small smile glowing on his face. Crowley wanted to throw back that his view was already the best in London. He joined the angel, gazing over the city that had been surrounded by a ring of unholy fire not less than three days ago. Life carried on. Humans zipped around them below in the streets, surrounded by their insignificant and yet enchanting lives. They’d really done it. The Rapture had been prevented. And neither of them had to worry about their head offices anymore. He supposed in a way, their Arrangement had come to an end. Blossomed into something more, something he didn’t have a name for yet. Something-

Aziraphale looked at him, and his breath caught in his throat. The way his eyes squinted slightly when he smiled had stolen his breath for centuries.  _ How are you this beautiful,  _ he wanted to say, brushing his fragile fingers against the angel’s.  _ How are you this brilliant,  _ he wanted to add, grasping his face.  _ How are you this kind,  _ he wanted to whisper, pressing his forehead against the angel’s, peering deep into his pale blue eyes. He settled on simply meeting Aziraphale’s gaze and allowing the smallest smile to grace his features. His heart soared.

A white whirlwind burst upwards, and Crowley recognized the six ivory wings too late. 

“Greetings, gentlemen,” said the Archangel Michael, celestial sword gleaming in her hand, stabbing Aziraphale before he could react. He fell, clutching the growing wound in his side, surprise and horror frozen on his face. Crowley caught him, his sunglasses falling from his face and clattering on the ground. He fell on his knees, clutching Aziraphale, hand rushing to the wound, applying pressure. He frantically whispered divine healing spells he’d invented millennia ago. Normal miracleing wouldn’t help him here. Aziraphale was still alive, but not for long if he didn’t do something. Crowley became sharply aware of Michael landing on the other end of the rooftop, a beat from her wings blasting him with air.

“I request thy name, Serpent,” she said, dropping the sheath of her sword to the ground. He didn’t respond. Aziraphale met his eyes through a blur, as if begging him to leave, run away to Alpha Centauri.  _ No,  _ thought Crowley, a single thought pressing out from a whirlpool of fear. He squeezed out more divine spells from his clenched teeth, weaving them around each other in a complicated manner, forcing the poison from Michael’s sword to stay put, slowing the blood flowing onto the pavement. He needed time-

Michael’s steps echoed behind him, growing closer. “Don’t bother saving the Principality. He’ll be stone cold in less than a minute.” she said, and Crowley could hear the pride in her tone, taunting him. He knew her eyes had grown crimson, the same tone that now coloured her sword, the same tone that was staining his hands. They shook despite his best efforts. Michael’s white pupils singed holes into his back. He could buy Aziraphale time- 

“Your healing can’t save him,” Michael repeated, and he could hear the humming from her weapon now, the electric frequency making the hairs on his neck stand up, leaving the inside of his mouth tasting of metal. A speck of angel blood dripped to the ground. She was close. “You exist to be slain by me, Serpent. So for the last time, what is thy name, demon?” 

Crowley felt his vision constrict. Michael’s boots in his peripheral vision, Aziraphale’s face, his own hands holding onto the life fleeing from his angel’s body disappeared. All sound cut off, and he was surrounded by the emptiness within him. Quiet, cold, infinite, drowning him since the beginning of time. It was the same nothingness that surrounded his stars, always binding, hiding them. He couldn’t breathe, suffocating in the darkness that overtook all his senses. It had always been there, the barren void draining everything in his life, extended between every neuron in his body and going all the way to the skies, smothering his stars. It had strangled him now, swelled from within his sternum and laid waste to all that he was. He had lost.

A roar, flickering to life within his ribcage like a hungry flame, spreading upwards, upwards, engulfing him entirely. He was falling again, the stars growing fainter, smoke in his lungs, eating him alive. He grasped the fire within, almost by accident. His frail fingers grew aflame, and for a split second the scalding pain overwhelmed him. A small part of him died there, on a rooftop in West End, holding the love of his life. And then he came back. Crowley was the fire, a Seraph, spreading everywhere over his own body, feeding himself to the growing hate within, consuming his anguish that had caged him for six thousand years. He burned. 

“I’m the Archangel  _ fucking _ Raphael,” Crowley whispered, and unfurled all six of his wings. The air ignited. Black filled the sky around him. Michael took a step back, stammering, the celestial glow from her sword dimming. Crowley stood up to his full height, all his wings extending for the first time in six thousand years. Two pairs were malnourished, neglected, still covered with the ashes from his Fall. But from within the darkness embroidered in his Seraphim wings, his yellow eyes glowed brighter than they ever had before. The narrowed slits that were his pupils had become black holes, from which nothing in the universe could run. There was a limit to how far you could push a scorned man. Crowley had been shoved past that limit.

His sunglasses laid forgotten in a growing puddle of blood beside his angel. Aziraphale whimpered something in a delirious state behind his wings. He stared at Michael with the same eyes she’d mourned for millennia, once kind, but now filled with endless wrath. Her sword, covered in his angel's blood, fell to the ground with a loud clang.

“All this time,” she said quietly, filling the silence. “You’ve been gone all this time, only to..” She stared at Crowley, unblinking. He wasn’t sure she could blink when her eyes took on their bloody complexion. Murderers didn’t blink.

“How could you?” she whispered. Crowley heard her voice perfectly over the wind. She’d forgotten her sword and stumbled over it, advancing towards Crowley like a wild animal. Michael stopped and clasped her head, the ruffles on her sleeves waving in the wind, covering her eyes. Time itself seemed to stop. She screamed, a primordial sound that started out in human registers, her vocal chords cracking, until her physical voice stopped functioning, the shrill reverberating in the air becoming something completely inhuman. She lowered her head and looked at him, the brink of insanity dancing within her eyes. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

Michael jumped at him, throwing a powerful but uncoordinated punch at Crowley’s stomach. He caught her trembling fist.

“I’m on my own side,” he told her shaking form. She looked up at him with fury. The red from her teary eyes turned vicious again, shrouding the white pupils until they were nothing more than tiny clouds in the post-apocalyptic universe hidden in her eyes.

“What does that even mean?” she snarled, her voice broken, echoing in a frequency that made human beings turn and run. She pulled her fist away and attempted another punch. “Think how much Good you could be doing, and you’re down here wasting your potential! All because of some stupid principality you’re fucking, and a mindless obsession with these primitive apes!” she screamed, blood dripping from her mouth. 

Crowley felt his anger rise. Her priorities were worth more than his existence.

“Let me guess,” he said, and pushed Michael away with unexpected force. She stumbled backwards and fell, gaping at him. “Your version of Good is only doing enough for these primitive apes that they end up on your side, fighting your battles during Armageddon. You follow orders that cause suffering, unquestioning. And then you have the audacity to turn a blind eye to it all.” he said, taking in Michael's quivering form on the asphalt. She was not used to him talking back. He’d make her.

"And do you know what else? Do you know why  _ I _ fell?" he inquired, looking at her, crouching slightly, feeling the corners of his mouth rise, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Michael was silent. The blowing wind was his only answer. "You punish genuine acts of kindness. And anyone who doubts you is executed or cast out." He laughed at the expression crossing her face. It was a bitter laugh, and he doubled over, holding his stomach. Michael stared at him. She wouldn’t understand, she didn’t want to understand. He laughed harder. She had crossed him from her thoughts, excused it, never bothering to truly comprehend  _ why  _ he Fell.

“Our orders are Ineffable-” she interjected, sudden fear in her tone. Her white, eery pupils had expanded, cloaking the crimson like an eclipse. He raised his head, challenging her.

“If they’re Ineffable, then how can you interpret them? And then judge others based on what you think is just?” he interrupted, a mocking smile drawled onto his features.

“Raphael, stop it!” She was afraid of seeing him like this. “You can’t just go around acting out on your nature! Imagine the chaos!” she barked. Falling back to touting Heaven’s propaganda seemed to encourage her. She attempted to stand up despite her broken ribs, and her own powerlessness seemed to dawn. Crowley realized, startled, that he’d shoved her too hard. He took a step forward, still shielding Aziraphale, and snapped his fingers. She looked afraid, meeting his eyes.  _ What does she think I’ve done to her?  _ Crowley pondered, fully enjoying the control he had over her.

Michael gasped as her ribs uncrumbled and reattached, hand flying to her sternum. Her eyes flew up at Crowley. He winked at her.

“Can’t I do as I please, then?” he asked, with a familiar mischievous spark in his eye.

“Raphael,” she was searching for words, gaping at him. Crowley was annoyed at the use of that name. She knew what his name was now. She just chose not to use it. She had never respected him. Her ritual of “requesting” demons names was really claiming ownership over their life. A being was their name, and if they had just foolishly given it to her, she then extinguished it.

Crowley shook his head, irritated. “I’ll have you know, humanity and me are completely fine without interference from any head office.” he said.

“I just... don’t understand.” she said, and stared at the ground. “I suppose you always liked arranging things on your own. Like the stars and such,” she attempted to smile at him, pretending to care for his work. Crowley met her eyes with a flat stare. He didn’t have enough emotion left to call her out. She tried to peek at Aziraphale, but Crowley stepped in front, frowning. He didn't trust her. She wanted to bargain. Crowley wasn’t going to give her anything.

"Can’t you just come home? Uriel misses you so much,” she rasped from the ground, wanting to make him believe this was a plea. Michael didn't beg. "I can’t comfort her like you used to. Do you know how much she’s cried?” Crowley doubted that. Uriel looked like she hadn’t felt a single emotion since Eden.

“Guilt tripping won’t work, Michael,” Crowley said, not flinching. “And you know as well as I do that you can’t welcome me back. Only God could.”

And he’d begged Her in the past. Now he simply didn’t care. Heaven had never been for him. 

“What am I supposed to do then? You’ve been gone for so long. Raphael, stop this.” Michael pleaded. She was getting more desperate. He’d had enough. Listening to her indoctrination made him sick to the core.

“You seem to have managed just fine without me, or so I’ve heard. Don’t you have some angels to abuse?” Crowley snapped, pulling out his sunglasses.

“Raphael, you can’t just-" Michael stumbled on her feet, frantic look in her eyes. She reached for her sword.

“Leave me alone.” Crowley said, and raised his hand. His staff materialized in his hands for the first time in millennia. He blinked behind his glasses. He hadn’t expected that. Neither had Michael, who was staring at him. He twirled it in his hand, a motion so familiar it may have been etched into his very soul. Maybe the Almighty had created it alongside him, cut them from the same ancient cloth, the same way all four of them had been. The copper staff whined, cutting the air in half with ease. A wordless threat, and Michael understood the extent of it. “I’m not Raphael anymore. Not to you.” 

He slammed his staff against the ground. Plants broke through the surface and spread around him, growing unnaturally fast. The tiny embellished copper details swirled around the head of the staff like a thousand snakes, and Crowley finally understood what his staff had depicted all this time. He’d been a serpent since the beginning. She’d planned all of this, and never bothered to tell him. This was Her last gift to him. The tiny copper snakes hissed, and new ones sprouted as plants, turning into metal. Their tails weaved together and spread upwards, underneath his hand, turning into a giant snake head. He smiled to himself, sharp tongue flitting from his mouth. Michael looked horrified. He hissed at her, letting his dark blue tongue flit out.

“You can’t possibly be this. This isn’t your nature,” she muttered, gripping her sword with one hand, parallel to the ground in front of her. She scrunched her nose up in disgust. Crowley knew what her nature was supposed to be. Michael, Saint of Protection, the ancient serpent-skewerer.

“You won’t get Raphael back, if that’s what you’re hoping to do. Raphael is gone. And he’s not coming back, even if you pretend to be asking nicely.” Crowley said, swirling his staff. It  _ screamed _ in his hand. He felt maniacal. “Which you clearly aren’t,” he added. He was a healer, not a fighter. He was at a disadvantage. He needed to protect Aziraphale, and he didn’t have much time before his wound turned fatal. If he riled Michael up, made her think sloppily, he had a chance. He had to believe there was one.

Michael stopped, drooping from her stance, lowering the sword. The uncertainty was reflected in her bloodied eyes, alabaster pupils glancing skyward. Silence filled the air, more deafening than any noise could have been. Some of the most tense seconds in his life passed. Michael looked up, as if searching for guidance. He could see a trickle of angel blood slowly rolling down her blade. It splashed on the ground. She lowered her head, having made up her mind. Crowley braced himself.  _ It was nice knowing you, Angel,  _ he thought. Maybe Michael would leave Aziraphale be. But then, without assistance, he’d bleed out on this rooftop completely alone. The glow coating Michael’s sword destroyed all souls that touched it, angel and demon alike. He wondered what it would feel like to stop existing entirely. Hadn’t he wanted to find out, once?

A thousand church bells rang hollow as Michael threw her sword to the ground, divine glow fading. She had forfeited her role as serpent-carver. She tried to look at Crowley, beg him for something. He met her eyes with the most vacant stare he had. He truly had nothing to give her. She stepped closer. Seeing her from close up, he saw how tired she looked. The red faded from her scleras, and for a split second her eyes were completely ghastly white. Her pupils returned from pearly nothingness. Her irises followed a second later. An angel’s eyes always betrayed their true intent. If her words hadn’t been genuine earlier, they certainly were now.

“Has the Almighty spoken to you?” she asked, voice straining, dry blood on her lips and chin. Crowley stayed silent, only raising an eyebrow. The poster child coming to the black sheep of the family, asking after their Mother. As if he knew. He shook his head, and watched as her expression fell. His stomach dropped.

“Because,” she gulped, and now he saw genuine fear in her eyes. “We haven’t heard from Her in six thousand years,” Michael said, anguish colouring her voice. His breath caught in his throat. The adrenaline disappeared from his body, leaving behind nothing of significance. All the air pressure on planet Earth seemed to force him to the ground. She heard the small breath that dropped from his lips, and turned to him, a sad smile mingling on her lips. He didn’t need to ask. He understood it all now.

Michael sheathed her sword and looked at Crowley one last time. Then she flew away, ivory feathers a contrast in the cloudy sky. He wished he could cry.

"Crowley-" Aziraphale wheezed, and he crouched beside him.

"I'm here, Angel." Hands shaking, he wiped the blood from Aziraphale's face, his touch as gentle as possible, fingers soothing over his angel's forehead. 

"Crowley," he whispered, seizing his wrist, not letting go.

"I'm here, Angel," he repeated, thumb resting on his temple, "Everything is going to be alright." He had to believe himself. He had to support Aziraphale.

He wanted to follow Michael and knock her out of the sky. Wounds caused by an Archangel rarely healed. If he weren't also an Archangel-

He didn't allow himself to think of that. He lifted Aziraphale a little to wrap his jacket around him. He still clutched his wrist. Crowley gathered him up in his arms and flew faster than perhaps he ever had. Aziraphale didn’t let go.


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alpha Centauri A and B are Sun-like stars. Together they form the binary star Alpha Centauri AB. To the naked eye, the two main components appear to be a single star with an apparent magnitude of −0.27. It is the closest star system to the Solar System at 4.37 light-years from the Sun. Alpha Centauri A has 1.519 times the luminosity of the Sun, while Alpha Centauri B is smaller and cooler, at 0.445 times the Sun's luminosity. The pair orbit around a common centre with an orbital period of 79.91 years. Their elliptical orbit is eccentric, so that the distance between A and B varies from about the distance between Pluto and the Sun, to that between Saturn and the Sun.

six  
  
  
It was a dark, stormy night. Rain beat against the windows in Crowley’s apartment. It was the only sound accompanying the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s bandaged chest. Crowley sat next to him on a chair he’d dragged from the kitchen, and watched him sleep. Aziraphale’s condition had stabilized a few hours ago. And yet Crowley was afraid that the angel’s health would slip, worsen while he was away for even a few minutes. He’d set up dozens of healing sigils, making sure none of them contradicted each other, instead weaving into each other seamlessly. The low hum of countless wards around the bed was only audible to him, none disturbing the angel’s rest.  
  
  
The first few hours had blended together in his head, panic melting together the moments where he genuinely thought he’d lost his best friend. Now he had time to contemplate, in the stillness of the night. Aziraphale must at the very least remember Michael. And Crowley had no explanation for how he’d fended her off. Even less so for some of these spells. They were too advanced, too divine in nature. And demons didn't bother with healing magic. Sure, some small miracles for healing the truly wicked, so that they could cause more evil. But a demon knowing magic that could heal angels? Aziraphale would figure it out just from that. And then there was a possibility that he remembered more. Any snippets of conversation, Crowley’s wings-  
  
  
His two hidden pairs hurt. He knew they weren’t in the best condition. He'd neglected them for millennia. The look that had crossed Michael’s face told him more than he wanted to know. They were sore from flying, unused to being moved. He wondered if the damage he’d done was beyond repair. He was too afraid to look at them. He couldn't imagine how Aziraphale would react to seeing his wings. Mistreated, dry, full of broken dull feathers still covered in soot. What would he think of him? A lump formed in his throat.  
  
  
Aziraphale stirred, mumbling something under his breath, scaring Crowley half to death. He shivered in his sleep, getting more restless. Crowley glanced at his vials. All was normal. He remembered how Aziraphale had gripped his wrist, not letting go. It had taken considerable effort to free himself when he’d needed to use two hands for some more elaborate spells. He wondered if-  
  
  
Holding his breath, he extended his arm, lightly touching the curve of Aziraphale’s hand, fingers sliding down against the arc of his knuckles. The angel slid his fingers against Crowley’s, sighing in his sleep. Crowley's breath caught in his throat. Aziraphale grasped his thin hand, thumb resting over the arch of his pinky, and fell deeper into sleep. Crowley felt the lump in his throat squeeze tighter. Something strange prickled at the corners of his eyes. He forced it down, instead letting the angel’s warmth seep into his skin. He sat there and watched the angel swaddled in grey blankets in his bed. He could stay like this forever, the paddle of rain against the window panes lulling him to calm after the day, the angel’s hand draped over his own.  
  
  
Crowley must have eventually nodded off a little, his own tiredness weighing him down. He woke as one of the sigils notified him that the angel had stirred. He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale inspecting one of the floating etchings above him, squinting his eyes at one Babylonian sigil intertwined seamlessly with an Enochian one, colliding together to create something that worked as a painkiller against Archangel grade poison. The angel still held his hand. He was tired, sickness imprinted onto his face. The shadows on his features had grown deeper. He looked calm on the surface, disguising the last after-shocks of poison slowly leaving his system. Crowley’s heart hurt at seeing him so fragile, his cheeks so hollow. A thin film of dreariness and exhaustion covered his blue eyes.   
  
  
And yet it didn’t disguise the inquisitiveness, the softness and the sheer amount of love and kindness beneath, curiosity edging his sight skyward. Nothing could extinguish his angel’s love of knowledge, his appreciation of wisdom and creativity in the service of selfless ends, or simply the desire to uncover the inner workings of the universe. He cared about the silliest things, like misprinted bibles, inaccurate and not nice prophecies of the future, and books containing hundreds of pages on the migratory habits of nightingales.  
  
  
And then he had entire shelves of books filled with loving, genuine poetry forbidden by society, deemed corrupting, illegal until recently, and oh, Crowley wondered, some of it could be used to describe them both. Two man-shaped beings, neither fitting in with the place they were from, falling through space and time, orbiting each other like a binary star system. Alpha Centauri, Rigil and Toliman, A and B. And it was really that simple, wasn’t it?   
  
  
Aziraphale eventually noticed Crowley watching him. He smiled. The morning light brushed softly at his pale complexion, easing the signs of illness from his face. The clouds seemed to disappear.  
  
  
“Crowley, this is beautiful work! I would have never thought to cross these like that!” he pointed to the symbol he’d been examining. “I must admit, it took me a little time to make sense of this. What exactly does it do? There’s some convoluted points,” he paused, squinting again, leaning upwards. Of course the first thing Aziraphale did after regaining consciousness was compliment his sigilwork, nonchalantly ignoring the fact he’d almost died via a sword de Michael. Did he remember the encounter at all? Somehow, that thought unsettled Crowley. He wouldn’t have to explain anything if he didn’t remember. And yet — he wanted Aziraphale to know the last bit of him, trust him with everything he was.  
  
  
The realization shook him. A small, dwindling flame had been lit within him, so tiny it fit through the head of a needle. Any stronger gust of wind could have blown it out, tearing around in the infinite void still hallowed in his chest, crushing him from inside out. He carefully raised the teeny matchstick within up to his heart. He still had one, charred, burnt, barely operational. He tucked the minuscule flame behind it and looked up at Aziraphale, who was regarding him with great curiosity.  
  
  
“Are you alright, Crowley?” he asked, leaning forward, worry crossing his face. He lightly squeezed his hand. Crowley’s heart swelled, and the fire did, too.  
  
  
“Yeah. I suppose I am.”  
  
  
Aziraphale studied his face, really looked at him. “My dear... I-” he hesitated. Aziraphale adjusted himself, scooting closer to Crowley. “I must ask that you explain.”  
  
  
_Here it comes,_ he thought. His hands had a terrible habit of shaking when he was nervous, betraying his emotions. But he couldn’t lose the grip Aziraphale had on him. His touch was the only thing grounding him, reminding him that he wasn’t lost in an abyss of nothingness, still swirling in his peripheral vision. Yes, he had the tiny flame hidden beneath his heart, but that had ignited just as fast as it could extinguish.   
  
  
He raised his other trembling hand to remove his sunglasses, and oh, Aziraphale definitely noticed his fear. His thumb gently smoothed over his knuckles. Crowley was going to spontaneously combust. The physical contact was slowly killing him. He'd dreamt about this for years. He set his sunglasses down. For a quiet moment, they simply met each other’s eyes.  
  
  
“How much do you remember?” he asked carefully, not giving anything away just yet.  
  
  
“I remember Michael,” Aziraphale said, and peered down at his bandages. “That’s one thing I’m certain in. The other-” He squeezed Crowley’s hand again, fingers dancing over his wrist, feeling his pulse hammering. Aziraphale sighed.  
  
  
“She came to kill you, didn’t she?” he whispered. Horror crept up his face. “Crowley, how exactly are you alive right now? How am I alive?” He sat up, eyes wide with panic mere centimetres away from his own, surrounded by a mess of blond curls that still had specks of dried blood in it. Before Crowley could answer, his eyes filled with pain and he sagged back down with a hiss, hand clutching his side.   
  
  
Crowley hovered above him, carefully lowering him back down. Aziraphale was deceptively light. He weighed more than Aziraphale. He was taller, but he also figured it was because he was carrying the weight of all of his sins.   
  
  
It was more physical contact than he’d ever grown used to. Some inner voice was screaming within him, but most of Crowley’s mind was already an unhinged black hole that kindly shoved his worst fears to the surface at the least appropriate moments. His touch-starved nature could take the backseat for once. He’d have to act as a nurse for the next few weeks. The tiny voice screamed bloody murder.  
  
  
_Sod this all,_ he thought, mentally glaring at the voice as if it were a misbehaving child. _I’m the Archangel of fucking healing_. He was used to this. Besides, Aziraphale and him had probably crossed most boundaries by now, after six thousand years and the end of the world. What was a few more? Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind.  
  
  
The angel regarded him with exhausted eyes. Crowley wanted to tell him to sleep, that there was time for questions another day. He wouldn't go anywhere. As if he'd heard his thoughts and wanted to hold him to that promise, Aziraphale wound his fingers around his hand. Crowley faltered. He lost his breath at every touch Aziraphale bestowed on him. It was as if he'd been stranded in a desert for years and had finally found an oasis. Crowley still wasn't certain that this wasn't all an illusion.  
  
  
He needed time to get used to this. He would, slowly. Crowley squeezed back, hoping to convey reassurance that everything was real. Solid and safe. Everything was going to be alright. No more Armageddon, no more meddling family members or Beelzebub, no more Heaven or Hell. Just the two of them and the remainder of humanity. Aziraphale's fingers were warm against his own.  
  
  
If he was honest with himself — which he rarely was — he needed the emotional support from their contact. It made his heart hammer, and yet he felt so at peace. The feeling of someone else holding him, even a tiny fraction of him, simply laying their hand on his own made all his other thoughts quiet. A brief respite from the world around him.  
  
  
Aziraphale’s eyes softened. The sun rose higher, illuminating more of the bedroom. The soft morning light cast delicate beams into the room, diminishing the detached feel of Crowley's apartment, making it seem more lived in, more like a home than a temporary lodging.  
  
  
A streak of morning light warmed its way up Aziraphale's face. His blond hair shone with light, and for a second Crowley thought he'd seen his halo. The glow arched past his hair, sparsely illuminating the small scuffs and bruises, trying hard to wipe the blood from his face and hair and cover it with liquid gold. It was divine in the earthly way Aziraphale was.  
  
  
Aziraphale looked like an angel who'd been stationed to earth for six thousand years, far removed from the artificial bureaucracy of Heaven, good because he wanted to be, and not because he was supposed to be. That is to say, he looked like Aziraphale, and to Crowley, there was nothing more beautiful. His pale blue eyes glimmered with tiny specks of sunlight. Questions still lurked under the blue surface.  
  
  
“She came for you,” Aziraphale repeated, and it wasn’t a question. “Her role, serpent killer. And she had her sword with her — I know she did, that metallic taste in my mouth was unmistakable.” he said, peering up at him with furrowed brows, as if expecting Crowley to laugh and tell him he was delusional. Crowley looked at him with eyes that told him he was spot on.   
  
  
“We both had a near death experience there,” Crowley said, and felt some of the pent up tension coil in his stomach. He laughed humorlessly, curling in on himself, letting his head fall on his chest.  
  
  
“Her sword should have killed me instantly- I mean, the poison is like hellfire to an angel- and, well, like holy water to a demon... Crowley, how exactly am I alive right now?” he whispered, frozen urgency hollowed into his words. His earlier fear flowed back, subdued only by Crowley's hand falling into place over his own, grounding him, banishing the building panic.  
  
  
“Removed the poison,” Crowley shot out, words stumbling from his sharp tongue just a bit faster than normal. Technically it wasn’t inaccurate. Just unspecific. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, clearly unsatisfied with his response.  
  
  
“Just like that? You can’t just miracle it away-”  
  
  
“Well, see for yourself.” He leaned back, waving some of the wards closer, quietly trembling fingers sweeping through the air in a dramatic arc. _Do it with style_ , his subconscious whispered, before retreating deeper into his mind, leaving him all alone. _Wow, thanks_ , Crowley echoed back. “Took a few hours.” he added, seeming nonchalance shadowed by his jittery hands.  
  
  
Aziraphale examined one of the floating spells, thankfully too preoccupied to notice Crowley's heartbeat shooting up like a helium balloon, leaving him weightless and dizzy. The soft orange glow lit his face from below. Aziraphale was fascinated, his brow quirked in a way when confronted by something you didn't understand yet, but were enthralled by, ready to sink hours of research into something new. Preferably in the early hours of the morning with a stack of books quivering on your desk like librarians jenga, precariously balancing a cup of tea.   
  
  
Crowley reminded himself to offer Aziraphale some after this ordeal, hoping to himself the angel wouldn't be angry. He'd find the obvious clues in the wards. He'd know. What if he was angry? What if he felt he'd been tricked and simply couldn't trust him anymore? Maybe there was more that he hid, more that even Aziraphale wouldn't stand. It was too late to attempt concealing some of the clues in the wards now. Now he had to wait until Aziraphale figured it all out.  
  
  
“This is-” he trailed off. “I have a vague idea what you’ve written here, but it’s- not really my specialization.” he admitted sheepishly, glancing at Crowley. "I was supposed to be a, well, platoon leader. Swords and fencing and such is more what I was expected to do." He peered closer at the tiny symbols circling around midair, constrained within a circle. “I didn’t realize you were so well versed in healing. This is-” he quieted again. The antique clock that had traveled with him since the 18th century ticked on, filling the seconds.   
  
  
Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the realization. His heartbeat skyrocketed, chiming within him like a bell. The angel beside him was quiet. He must have figured it out, Crowley thought, fear shooting upwards and coiling itself tightly around his heart. The flame within flickered, ready to be blown out. He didn’t dare open his eyes, see the expression on Aziraphale’s face. Anger. Betrayal. Disgust. More seconds passed. Crowley was utterly terrified. He might have just ruined it all.  
  
  
A soft touch enveloped his hand. The last remains of Crowley’s critical thought manning the trenches threw up white flags and ran. The tiny voice within him screamed like a Beatles fan in 1964. Aziraphale laid another hand on his own, cradling his frail trembling fingers with both hands. Warmth filled him.   
  
  
“Crowley,” he said softly. “I won’t- I won’t ask you to tell me who you used to be. If it brings you pain, then I won’t inquire.” Crowley’s eyes flitted open, peering at Aziraphale completely dumbfounded. He'd expected rage. Maybe not the kind that moved mountains and burnt down entire villages. He'd expected quiet hurt to sear into the angel's eyes, force his mouth shut and fill the air with awkwardness around them. He'd have disappeared a few nights from now, and Crowley would have woken to find an open window and an empty bed. Crowley would have never seen him again. It wouldn't have surprised him.   
  
  
But instead he was here, his eyes filled with acceptance and love, — and it was love, and Crowley finally understood — holding his hand like it was the holy grail. Something warm stung in the corners of his eyes. Crowley didn’t understand what it was. He snarled and rubbed his eyes forcefully, wondering if the electricity surrounding Michael’s sword had side effects he didn’t know of that could damage exposed fragile surfaces. When he raised his eyes again, Aziraphale looked heartbroken. His eyebrows had drooped down, and sorrow reflected in his eyes. Sympathy rolled off him in waves. Crowley wondered why.  
  
  
“Oh, dear boy,” he sighed, pale blue eyes not leaving him for a second. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t know who you used to be, exactly. But, whoever you were- I know you’ve always been kind.” Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. Aziraphale squeezed his hand, both thumbs resting in his palm, tracing tiny circles onto his skin.  
  
  
He didn't know.  
  
….  
  
  
A few days passed. Aziraphale healed faster than Crowley had expected. Angels did heal quicker than humans, as Crowley knew. An abdomen wound would have left a human bedbound for several weeks. Aziraphale had attempted to amble around Crowley's apartment after merely three days, to the latter's horror.  
  
  
"Aziraphale, what the-"  
  
  
Aziraphale looked at him like a dog caught chewing toilet paper as Crowley stormed over, frozen in place, gripping the back of Crowley's couch.  
  
  
"I know what you're going to say-" Aziraphale began sheepishly, but Crowley shushed him as he had at the airbase.  
  
  
"And I'm going to say it anyway- you shouldn't be on your feet for another three days, and that's the minimum amount of time. If you need something, then holler. I do have ears." Crowley helped Aziraphale onto the couch. The angel settled in, throwing his leg over his knee.  
  
  
"If I'd have let any of my other patients walk after only six days, they'd have been jumping with joy," he grumbled.  
  
  
"Which, let me guess, you wouldn't have allowed," Aziraphale sighed. "No jumping." He perked up then, and Crowley knew he'd accidentally slipped up. "Other patients?"  
  
  
Crowley's face fell. Aziraphale backtracked, shoving the gearshift firmly into reverse, despite the fact that he couldn't drive a car, and definitely didn't know the difference between a manual and an automatic.  
  
  
"You don't have to tell me! If you don't want to, I mean," he said.  
  
  
Crowley peered at him. "Humans," he mumbled. "Humans are so fragile. They're so hard to put back together once they've already unraveled. I don't- understand how…" he trailed off, lost in memories centuries past.   
  
  
Aziraphale looked at him in that sad way again, pulling him from his thoughts. Crowley wondered where he managed to hide that look in his eyes. Aye, Aziraphale's eyes were an endless azure abyss you could drown in and never surface. But even so, the melancholy seemed to burst from the surface, lapping at his feet and throwing spray drops at his entire being.  
  
  
He should tell him. He'd pushed this off long enough. Aziraphale deserved to know who he fraternized with. His hands trembled. He inhaled, tried to collect himself, and failed. His burnt wings itched.   
  
  
Aziraphale needed to know. Nothing else mattered.  
  
  
"You're a good person," Aziraphale said, and Crowley stumbled, words dying on his tongue. Time seemed to flow in reverse, until-   
  
  
He was falling again, wings charred, as he had six thousand years ago. The highest any angel had ever fallen from. Burning, scalding, his hair igniting, the smell of burnt flesh embedded into him and he wanted to throw up, gouge out the damaged bits within him. He was so tired. And yet he couldn’t sleep, the stench of his own sickness keeping him awake, curling itself around him.  
  
  
He was faintly aware of Aziraphale staring at him, saying his name and yet it was muffled, as if it came from underwater. Or maybe he was the one underwater, continuing to sink, fall. He looked at his angel, and yet he grew more distant, further away-  
  
  
He'd crawled out of the pool of sulphur, his halo falling to the ground in front of him with a dull clang, the front broken off, edges scarred and broken, bent upwards like a crescent. He’d barely had time to process the mangled halo when it had started aching so badly he'd screamed and clasped it, dragging it back within him. It didn't glow anymore, instead seeming to pull light into it, acting like a black hole. He could feel it in his soul, ingrained just below his sternum. A permanent emptiness draining him of light.  
  
  
Sometimes Crowley moved wrong or too fast and his broken halo came free. It stabbed him, cutting deep into his flesh from the inside. It pulled down, starting from his neck, cleaving through his collarbones, his sternum. His insides screamed. It fell out with a final sting around his navel. Crowley could do nothing but curl up into a ball and rock back and forth. He'd attempted to pull it out and throw it away, leave it in some dark faraway pit. He wasn't an Archangel. He didn't need the bloody thing anymore. The halo’s continued existence within him was mocking, humiliating. And yet it stuck to his hand and wouldn't budge. The area at the front that was missing had been torn off violently, and the material there was jagged, sharp. It had torn his hands open when he'd attempted to touch it, once. He wondered if the front bit of his halo was floating around somewhere between his stars, hurting them as much as the rest hurt him.  
  
  
He'd had dreams of the Almighty forcing him down while still holding him up by the front of his halo. It had bent and cracked and Crowley had screamed, begged, rasping for air and struggling to find leverage, anything to stand on, the force tearing him in half. He felt like he was being hanged, the life slowly draining from him, legs dangling uselessly. Finally the front had broken off with a nauseating crack and he'd Fallen. Her face was the last thing he'd see, cold and completely emotionless. He'd wake up after that, form trembling so hard he was afraid he'd be discorporated. He hoped it had been a dream. He didn't remember enough to know for sure.  
  
  
He'd never heard any other demon complain about the never ceasing pain radiating from their halo. Sometimes he wondered if anyone else still had theirs. He'd never dared to ask.  
  
  
A good person? When the only things that told of his past were as mangled as him? His wings, his halo, his own memories. He could never be forgiven. There was nobody left to forgive him. She was dead or gone or had never existed at all and what did it really matter?  
  
  
"Crowley," a voice broke through. He startled, and the roaring darkness on the day of his fall started to fade. Two pale blue pools stared at him. He forced himself to focus, and slowly the world returned to the present, speeding up at the end, and he snapped back to reality.  
  
  
His vision was blurry and heavy. Suddenly he felt so very cold. He couldn't meet the angel's eyes. He must have felt the emotional fireworks flaring up through him. He trembled and mentally kicked himself. He couldn't hide his feelings like he hid his eyes behind his glasses.   
  
  
_Why do you think I'm good?_ he wanted to ask. _You of all beings should know better._ But Aziraphale didn't know. Crowley had fallen the furthest from grace. Why couldn't he just stop caring, stop the torrent of emotions racking his feeble body? Nobody had any use for his stupid, weak self. Nobody cared-  
  
  
Aziraphale took his hand and pulled him closer, until Crowley stood in front of him. Crowley didn't breathe. He was so very mistaken.  
  
  
Aziraphale enveloped another hand around his palm and glanced up at him, blue eyes peering into his soul. Sometimes Crowley believed he really did see into his soul. His wretched, damned, demonic soul, hairline cracks running through his entire being that told anyone who cared to look that he was fragile and broken and undeserving of everything and anything. Paltry and sick in comparison to what he should be, what he used to be. He doesn't even know, Crowley thought light-headedly, the contact of warm skin over his own robbing him of all thought. He still lingered on his pale blue eyes, and they met him back. He didn't understand the inner workings that propelled such caring towards him, of all beings — and he still didn't really believe it, not really.  
  
  
His hand was lifted, and then Aziraphale pressed his lips against the bare skin on the back of Crowley's hand, leaving a chaste kiss unto his frail form. Crowley's breath caught in his throat, and the last resemblance of critical thought vanished into thin air. He loved this angel, so much that it hurt — the longing of six thousand years all collected into his being.  
  
  
He wanted to drop to his knees and beg for more, have Aziraphale cover his hand with kisses, then lightly press a kiss on his wrist over his thundering heartbeat. He wanted to feel Aziraphale cup his face, thumbs resting at his cheekbones, and pull him upwards, until his breath brushed at his face, his wonderful pale blue eyes looking deep into his own. He wanted to sink into Aziraphale. He was shivering so badly, and oh, wouldn't it be nice if someone were to hold him and never let go, hold onto him and let him bury his face in the crook of their neck — his entire body ached. Crowley imagined Aziraphale holding him, enveloping him in a soft embrace.  
  
  
Aziraphale looked up at him, holding onto his hands, and Crowley wondered if his angel felt the same. To what extent? Aziraphale’s affection and caring was laid out freely on his face, and Crowley decided to lay his cards on the table. He removed his sunglasses with his free hand — it was shaking again, betraying his emotions for better or for worse — and let Aziraphale look into his eyes. He wondered what he found there.  
  
  
"You are good," Aziraphale said simply, love welling in the very bottom of his eyes. "You're wonderful, my dear." His fingers were splayed at the edge of his hand, the connection forming the barycentre that kept them both in orbit. Two celestial bodies hurtling through space and time, sometimes drifting further apart, sometimes crashing towards each other. Aphelion and perihelion. Sometimes Crowley felt lost without him, lost in the dark emptiness that covered him. And then a force gripped him and he fell, and there was a light at the end of the tunnel, blazing. A light that never went out. _You're so much brighter than me,_ Crowley wanted to say. _Sometimes I wonder if I'm necessary at all._  
  
  
He gently retracted his hand from Aziraphale's, making sure the angel wasn’t hurt. He didn't want to. He wanted to come back, crawl into Aziraphale's lap and run his fingers through his fluffy white hair, press a kiss to his forehead. The yearning was strangling him, slowly and surely. But he couldn't. He didn't deserve any of this. He forced himself away and his entire body screamed at him, take it, take it, take this one good thing in your life. Take him and never let go.  
  
  
"No," Crowley whispered. I'm never good enough, remained unsaid. His halo rattled loose again, embedding one jagged tip right above his heart.  
  
  
He turned and left, the warmth still covering his hand where Aziraphale had been.  
  
….  
  
  
He returned an hour later, fear grappling his heart that Aziraphale had been hurt when alone, unable to call him for help. Aziraphale was alright, and the gaze he gifted him before returning to his book banished the last spell of panic.  


....

He'd given Aziraphale the clearance to walk around as he was just enough of a bastard to do so anyway when he wasn't looking. He hadn't managed to tell him the truth. The angel had left for his bookshop, cheerfully waving at him, and Crowley had loudly cursed at himself for being a coward.   
  
  
The truth nibbled at his conscience day and night, more fervent than ever before. He just wanted to get this over with. He wanted something more with Aziraphale, more than they currently had. Their Arrangement had already morphed from reluctant coworkers to best friends. He wanted to gently prod at it, cross the tiny line that stood between them being — romantically entangled. The thought of that dried his throat. They were already close, closer to each other than to anyone else in the universe.   
  
  
Nothing big would really change. Their relationship wasn't standard. People already assumed they were together, and in a sense they weren't wrong. They weren't exactly right, either. Neither of them craved sexual intimacy. Crowley hadn't even realized that wasn't the norm until very recently, and his feelings for Aziraphale had stayed the same for thousands of years. He knew one thing for certain: he loved Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loved him. But the exact nature of said love was a mystery to Crowley.  
  
  
They needed to talk before things changed. Which meant Crowley needed to tell Aziraphale what he really was. The thought terrified him.  
  
  
The angel rang Crowley’s doorbell to the latter’s surprise and barely constrained terror barely 20 minutes later, holding a stack of books. He’d set them down on Crowley’s coffee table and settled onto his couch, becoming engrossed in a book in mere minutes, only murmuring a quiet thanks when he’d been offered tea.   
  
  
Crowley stood in his kitchen and listened to the kettle whistle. He’d expected Aziraphale to hurry back to his bookshop and do a week’s worth of reading in an hour, completely dead to the world. He’d not expected to see him again for the next four to five business days. Not because he was avoiding Crowley — the angel simply forgot about everything else while he was in his own book world. That he chose to return and do his reading on his couch instead? Crowley was baffled.  
  
  
The kettle finished and he poured the boiling water, stirring the tea bags around in both mugs, spoons clinking against the ceramic. He stood and watched the water darken, whirlpools intensifying until tea almost spilled over the edge. He let it steep, staring at his unstable reflection at the bottom. Maybe the world had ended after all. Everything was different. He constantly felt like he was still doing 120mph in a burning Bentley. He wanted to slow down for once. Crowley sighed, collecting the mugs and ambled towards the living room. His reflection in the water shivered.  
  
  
He passed through the doorway and almost dropped the mugs at the sight of Aziraphale. He stood with his wings unfolded, a bright white splash in the center of the room. Sunlight cast a beautiful glow onto the brilliant white, marred by splashes of dried blood. Crowley felt nauseous. That was his angel's blood. Aziraphale was attempting to pry some dried specks off, gritting his teeth through pain. He was going to pluck out entire sections of feathers at the rate he was working.  
  
  
"Angel!" Crowley set his mug down and hurried over to Aziraphale, traces of his previous intentions gone with the wind. "You'll damage the wings like this! I'll get this out, I’ve done it before, let me just get a damp cloth- or in the shower or-” he rambled, words rattling and dying on his tongue at the curious glance Aziraphale threw him.  
  
  
“You’ve gotten angel blood on your wings before?” Aziraphale asked, and he was clearly joking a little. Crowley hadn’t even seen another angel before their failed executions for thousands of years. Nobody besides Aziraphale. And aye, there was the rub.  
  
  
He swallowed. He knew that Aziraphale’s blood had seeped into his own wings. And more than one pair, at that. He’d been too distraught to clean them earlier, not even mentioning the two pairs of wings he never looked at, never cared for. He felt ashamed.  
  
  
Aziraphale cast one long look at him and sighed. “I… wouldn’t mind the help. If you. Um. Wanted to,” he gestured at his wings, smiling nervously.  
  
  
Crowley let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He inspected the stain, puzzling how to clean it. Angel wings were big and took a long time to dry. Submerging them completely in water was generally a bad idea, as it made them very vulnerable to cold.*  
  
  
*It was an open secret that Third Sphere angels like Aziraphale became as irritable and furious with colds as Second or even First Sphere angels. A Second Sphere angel with a cold would attempt to wrestle Lucifer himself, and nobody in their right mind could hold them back. Nobody had ever witnessed a First Sphere angel with a cold. Crowley suspected some poor Dominion was charged with the task of feeding Gabriel and Michael enormous quantities of celestial chicken soup every morning.  
  
  
“Hold on,” he called out, and stalked out of the room. Aziraphale stood there, awkwardly fidgeting with the hem of his waistcoat, listening as Crowley seemed to demolish half of his apartment with a wrecking ball by the sounds of things. Occasionally a dark flash flew by him and the clanging begun in a different room. Crowley sped by him again, banging his hip on the table, cursing loudly and hopping to the kitchen. Aziraphale pictured the Benny Hill theme running in the background. Crowley’s elderly downstairs neighbour banged on the ceiling with a broom.  
  
  
“Sorry about that,” Aziraphale apologetically said, both to the downstairs neighbour and the black whirlwind that was Crowley speeding past him again, clutching his hip. He miracled the sound isolation better between the floorboards.  
  
  
Crowley returned with all the blankets in his possession which he unceremoniously dumped on Aziraphale’s head. When he finally freed himself, he also spotted several hot water bottles and Crowley’s heating pad — he’d thoroughly cleaned and disinfected it — which he’d pulled from his own habitat. He was waving around with his phone, and if Aziraphale squinted hard enough, he could make out the phrases “ _wikihow_ ” and “ _how to clean a bird.”_  
  
  
_Oh no,_ thought Aziraphale.  
  
  
“Into the shower, angel.”  
  
….  
  
  
It took a bit of pushing. Crowley’s bathroom was small. Aziraphale was perched on the edge of the shower-tub amalgamation like a well fed dove, one wing stretched out within the cubicle, the other tucked in close to his body. Crowley had given up on trying to wrap him up like a burrito, as the wrap couldn’t get wet and was also notoriously difficult to balance in. He’d rolled up his black skinny jeans, exposing thin hairy ankles, and was now whistling while spraying his wing with the hose, like a father to three children watering his lawn on a Sunday afternoon.  
  
  
Aziraphale was smitten.  
  
….  
  
  
Aziraphale was extremely comfortable. Crowley had succeeded in binding him in a burrito wrap, barely able to move, with several more blankets laid on top. The heat mat worked overtime beneath him. Crowley was lounging next to him, clearly also craving the heat and yet wary of accidental contact with the angel. He was reading out loud from one of Aziraphale’s books, his lovely voice slowly growing sleepier. He hadn’t allowed Aziraphale out of his cocoon, muttering something incomprehensible about chicken soup and Dominions. The angel wondered when Crowley had last slept. He felt guilty.  
  
  
"Crowley?"  
  
  
Crowley hummed beside him.  
  
  
"Can I…?" Aziraphale faltered. Grooming another's wings was a show of great affection. He had difficulty voicing his request. He took a breath in. Crowley fixed his sunglass-clad eyes firmly on him.  
  
  
"Can I- fix up your wings?"  
  
  
The question rested in the air. Crowley seemed frozen into place, hands frozen mid page turn. Aziraphale's stomach lurched. Had he overstepped his boundaries, made Crowley uncomfortable in any way?  
  
  
"It's late," Crowley croaked out after a few seconds. "I- my wings are big. And not… in the best condition."  
  
  
Aziraphale wondered. Crowley regularly took care of his wings. He'd always known him to. And they were big, sleek and impressive — he wanted to run his fingers across the dark feathers and feel Crowley shudder in response — but they weren't that much bigger than his own. Had Michael damaged his wings somehow, to the point where Crowley didn't want him to see-  
  
  
"It's alright, angel. Don't worry about it." Crowley said quietly from beside him. He sounded so small. Aziraphale wanted to draw him into his arms, rest his head on top of Crowley's and run circles onto his back. There was a fragility to him that he hid in fear, as if the smallest breeze would shatter him. Maybe it could. _What things have you lived through?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask him some day, when Crowley felt better.  
  
  
He started snoring next to him, slowly melting into the heat and the mass of blankets. Aziraphale considered lifting the blanket a little and pulling Crowley in. He looked so very frail.  
  
  
_Better not,_ he thought sadly, watching as Crowley shivered against him.  
  
  
He wanted to return the care and affection bestowed to him tenfold.  
  
  
….  
  
Aziraphale never slept, but he was certain nobody trembled that much in their sleep. Crowley's entire form was shivering. He was rasping for air even though he didn't really need to breathe, occasionally murmuring phrases Aziraphale couldn't make sense of. He was unsure what to do.  
  
  
He wiggled out from his wrap and gently pushed Crowley down on the heat pad. He fell like a sack of potatoes and curled up, fingers digging into the cushions. His hair was mussed up, sunglasses lost somewhere between the pillows. He had the saddest look on his face.  
  
  
Aziraphale set his sunglasses onto the coffee table and carefully tucked Crowley in. There wasn't anything he could do. Crowley slept like the dead. Waking him was next to impossible and would have left Crowley even more vulnerable and unsteady.   
  
  
He pulled a chair from the kitchen and set it down by him. His hand hovered over the side of Crowley's face. He wanted to hold him. Aziraphale pulled back.  
  
  
He extended his wings over Crowley's head and rested his hand next to him. Crowley's fingers fumbled through sleep and found his own, grasping onto him like a lifeline.  
  
  
He seemed to shiver slightly less.  
  
….  
  
  
After an hour, Aziraphale realized what Crowley was saying, over and over again like a broken record, changing languages in mid sentence, some extinct ones being uttered for the first time in millennia.  
  
  
Forgive me.  
  
  
….  
  
  
Crowley woke after a few hours, shooting up on the couch, rasping for air, eyes darting across the room. His uncovered eyes met Aziraphale's blue. He slowly recollected himself, as if putting together pieces of a broken mirror. His hands shook more than usual as he raised them to look at them. The fear that strangled his heart from his usual dream had started to slither away when he realized-  
  
  
Aziraphale was here. Aziraphale had seen him.  
  
  
He knew. He had to. Crowley slowly raised his eyes to look at him. He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know what to say.  
  
  
_I'm sorry that I'm not what you expected. That I'm weak and cowardly and the most damned soul you'll ever meet._  
  
  
Even Aziraphale had limits, surely. And yet-  
  
  
“I need to tell you something, angel,” he murmured. Crowley stood up and looked at Aziraphale, a tint of sadness covering his yellow eyes. He had to. Maybe Michael would show up again, maybe Gabriel would drag Aziraphale away. He had to confess before they ran out of time.   
  
  
Before the angel could talk, ask him what this was about, Crowley looked past him, seemingly into nothingness, and extended his hand. He looked completely empty inside. Aziraphale waved a hand in front of his face and garnered no response. He had just enough time to get truly concerned before a strange ringing echoed in the air. Crowley's plants shivered. The staff materialized in his hand. The three hundred and thirty three snakes — he’d counted them — were coiled up and quiet in fear. His hands were shaking again.  
  
  
_No turning back now,_ Crowley’s consciousness whispered.  
  
  
Aziraphale slowly exhaled. His eyes were wide in disbelief.  
  
  
“How-” Aziraphale breathed in. His worry broke free and cascaded down like a waterfall. “How on earth did you get this?” He ran his hand through his hair. Blinked once. Twice. “This is an Archangel’s staff,” he murmured, an incredulous tone colouring his voice.  
  
  
“Exactly,” Crowley breathed.  
  
  
The giant snake head moved, and Aziraphale froze. The copper serpent’s eyes peered into his own, completely emotionless.  
  
  
He raised his eyes to see that Crowley had backed away from him, trembling. Something warm gleamed in the corners of his eyes, threatening to well over. He took a few steps forward, but stopped, seeing the panicked look on Crowley's face. He was breathing fast.  
  
  
“You know who I am, angel,"  
  
  
Time stood still. Realization was starting to dawn on Aziraphale's face. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut before he could see the anger, the rejection. He couldn't. It would break him completely, destroy him more utterly than holy water ever could. But he couldn't keep facing Aziraphale like this. He wanted to quiet the screaming in his head. He needed to take one more step.  
  
  
He pulled his six wings from the ether in one smooth motion. Taut joints extended and stretched to the ceiling. His wings were ruins of something once impressive, brilliant white reduced to coal black. They had the melancholy beauty of an old abandoned church. Ash and soot marred the room, thirstily drinking up the light. His wings ached distantly, and the two prongs of his halo tried to break free, scrape the insides of his soul to a pulp. He forced the halo down. He'd had years of practice. Dull black feathers, some broken along the spine, softly settled on the ground.  
  
  
Aziraphale's face crumbled to sadness like paper under rain. He looked at him, finally seeing him, seeing the willful neglect of his wings and all that he was. He'd always known something was wrong. But he must have been unprepared for this. This was his final stand — gasping, dying, but somehow still alive. All that he was, collected into a fierce last distress signal.   
  
  
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, face softening, trying to reassure him, care for him. Even now. "It's alright."   
  
  
"No, it's not," Crowley croaked. "I lied to you. And I'm-" His halo stabbed him from the inside. He forced down a sob. "I'm completely abhorrent. Look at me." He extended his thin hands, a contrast to his dull black wings.  
  
  
Aziraphale sighed, heartbreak reflected in his eyes. He didn't want to see him hurt like that. "Crowley- you're wonderful." Crowley didn't respond. Aziraphale pressed on. "You've never done anything to deserve this." He gestured with his hand to the years of neglect.  
  
  
"Haven't I, though?" Crowley rasped. His eyes glimmered with something. But he couldn't cry. He never could.  
  
  
"Crowley-" Aziraphale stepped closer to him. "You're one of the kindest beings I've ever met. You've fallen now, but-" He sighed again. "You're still- you. I've never known you to be different. And you're good." Sudden anger crossed him, made him frown so that the lines around his eyes turned cold, furious. "How corrupt do you think Heaven is if they reject the Archangel of Healing, for Adam's sake?"  
  
  
"But _She_ threw me out!" Crowley screamed, composure slipping completely. His wings spread out, higher. He heaved out the words, dripping from his tongue like poison. "It wasn't even Heaven- they thought I was just stupid, wasting my time in the skies for all these stars that nobody would ever even see-" his voice gave out, starting to tremble in that way he hated. He looked at Aziraphale, begged him to understand. "I've tried to talk to Her. And now Michael-" he rasped, his voice cracking. "There's nobody left to forgive me. She's gone, either She's died or left and even Michael doesn't know anything-"  
  
  
Aziraphale remembered his plea, his prayer from last night.  
  
  
"I forgive you."  
  
  
Crowley stopped — his breathing, the air raid sirens in his head, his thoughts. Rarely did all three stop simultaneously. He had to collect himself, string together a single coherent word or thought. Aziraphale had gently kept challenging his mindset, breaking away pieces bit by bit through the ages. Through philosophical discussions over uncountable wine bottles, through the quiet trips in his Bentley, through the small quirk of his mouth as he watched him talk, blue eyes shimmering.  
  
  
He didn't understand anything anymore. A priest could forgive a mortal's sin. The pope could declare you as innocent as a newborn child. And here stood an angel, looking at him so softly, telling him he was forgiven.   
  
  
Aziraphale's blue eyes met his own. He saw nothing but truth. _What has become of this world?_ he thought. Everything was upside down, Heaven and Hell were the same, God was dead and Aziraphale-  
  
  
Aziraphale loved him.  
  
  
Crowley tentatively stumbled a few steps forward towards Aziraphale. He waited for him, hands slightly outstretched, as if he was afraid he'd fall. Ready to support him, a constant. Sometimes Crowley sped past him, barreling forward in unthinkable speed. He returned with darkness flanking him to find Aziraphale waiting for him, like he'd never left at all. He'd been his only companion for such a long time.  
  
  
He stepped closer to Aziraphale, their noses almost touching. Perihelion. They'd found each other again. Aziraphale had to look up slightly to see into his eyes. They'd both forgotten to breathe. This was the closest they'd ever been. Maybe there had been an error in spacetime, leading to this very moment. Maybe, if Crowley breathed too hard, the illusion of Aziraphale would shatter.  
  
  
Aziraphale raised one hand and cupped his cheek, the edge of his hand brushing against Crowley's suddenly sensitive lips. This was real. Aziraphale was solid and safe and real. Crowley was drowning into him. He shuddered and leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth cradling him. Aziraphale looked so careful, tenderly holding his face like porcelain. And yet so certain, supporting him, blue eyes saying, _I'll always be here._ He raised another hand and rested it on Crowley's jaw, fingertips grazing his neck. For once, Crowley felt completely safe, here, with Aziraphale holding him. He'd forgotten the feeling, never realizing what he'd missed. The thousand screaming voices in his head were long quiet.  
  
  
Inch by inch, he moved his hands, until they were circled around Aziraphale's waist. It felt as if the ache in his hands lessened, remedy spreading to his entire body from every point of contact. Aziraphale leaned his forehead against his own. Their noses touched.  
  
  
"Angel," Crowley whispered, and his breath brushed against Aziraphale. He shivered. He'd yearned for this so long. Aziraphale looked at him. His eyes filled Crowley's vision. It was hard to look at anything else.   
  
  
Finally, he let himself unravel. It had been long due. Falling, Eden, Ark, Agnes, Aziraphale's wings and body covered in blood and life slowly leaving his eyes-   
  
  
The wetness welling in his eyes betrayed him. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Aziraphale moved his thumb to brush it away, but then more followed. Crowley was silently crying.  
  
  
"Crowley," Aziraphale begun, alarmed, but Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed under his chin, his red hair brushing against his jaw. Aziraphale felt more than heard the first sob. The dam broke. Crowley was quivering against him, muffling his whimpers into his shoulder. He was spinning loose, at long last letting himself feel the grief he'd bottled away for so long. He was safe now. Crowley's hands snaked higher on Aziraphale's back, grasping for support, and he pressed tight into the angel. He could finally cry, for the first time in millennia. He weeped earnestly, like a little child.  
  
  
His entire body trembled, and his sobs grew thicker. Crying was more cathartic than he'd ever even hoped to dream. Aziraphale was warm against him, hands holding him close and secure, as close as they could be without shedding their mortal form. His white wings shielded them both. He rested his hands at Crowley's shoulder blades, running circles near where his wings began. He'd help Crowley clean them one day. For now, he just held him. That was all they both needed at present.   
  
  
He sighed and looked down at Crowley, who clung onto him, hugging him for all their missed six thousand years. He'd never expected Crowley to shatter like this, to be drawn into his embrace and break down so tragically. He was crying his fallen archangel heart out. Aziraphale ached in sympathy. He wished he'd figured this out faster, saved him a few decades worth of suffering, given him a chance to bring this all to light. He never wanted him to feel like this again.   
  
  
Aziraphale pressed a tiny kiss on his forehead, hoping to reassure him, show him that he was safe. He curled his fingers in his hair, slowly rocking them both back and forth. They'd both be alright now.  
  
  
"I didn't mean to fall," Crowley whimpered after his sobs grew less frequent, and Aziraphale drew him closer, whispering tender words. After he cared for Crowley he was going to personally fight God. Why had this been necessary?   
  
  
They rocked back and forth, and eventually Crowley calmed down. There was an emptiness inside him, a clean space where there had once been rot. He'd washed it away now. They had time now, for a new beginning. It was as if he'd opened a window for the very first time in weeks and felt the breeze on his face, seen the flowers sway in the wind. Seen the beauty of the life that existed around him.  
  
  
"What are we even doing?" Crowley whispered, looking up, eyes red-rimmed, letting Aziraphale sway him, one of his hands tousled in Crowley's hair, the other resting on the small of his back.  
  
  
The angel quietly laughed, and Crowley felt the vibrations echo through him. Aziraphale languidly twirled them around. "It seems I forgot to put on music," Aziraphale said, and Crowley smiled, the red edges of his eyes crinkling.   
  
Aziraphale suddenly realized that Crowley's eyes weren't yellow or ochre or even amber. They were gold. "Silly me," he whispered in awe.   
  
  
He'd have to look into his eyes again to make sure he was right about their colour. And again and again. He needed to see them in the morning light when they woke up next to each other and the sun was still young, and at noon when they walked through the park and fed the ducks, the gleaming sunlight shimmering on the water. He'd check again in the afternoon when Crowley lazed around his bookshop, always next to his pristine copies of Sappho and Wilde, and in the evening when they met for dinner and drank wine. He'd need to see them at night, when they'd drive to the countryside, to a place where nightingales sang and the stars still shone. He wanted to see what his eyes looked like when Crowley gazed skywards, letting the moon and its distant companions drape a veil of liquid silver over gold.  
  
  
"I only have what you call bebop, angel," Crowley spoke quietly, humour finding its way back to him even through a sniffle.  
  
  
"That's quite alright, my dear. What _is_ a Velvet Underground?"  
  
  
  
….  
  
Crowley watched as Aziraphale leaned on the cupboard next to the record player, pale blue eyes going wide with surprise. He turned to look at Crowley, warmth and fondness pooling in the bottom of his eyes.  
  
  
Crowley let himself linger.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen to Pale Blue Eyes by the Velvet Underground.


End file.
